Until Midnight
by Nancy Brown
Summary: AU. Lisa's dead, and Ianto is bleeding. JackxIanto


Written for **twclssckinkmeme**, prompt: "AU rentboy fic where Jack is the one for sale"

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><p>He ought to be dead. It's Ianto's first thought when he wakes up in the morning and he hasn't been shot or Retconned. It haunts him as he goes through his morning routine, unable to think about anything else but washing his body (the bloodstains are still under his nails) and finding a clean suit (he put the old one in a black bin bag, it's still sitting in a sad heap in his kitchen) and making his breakfast (he has to step over the bag in his good leather shoes but this is easier than acknowledging what's inside).<p>

He ought to be dead but he isn't. Torchwood London would have had him executed. As he listens to the scrape of butter on his toast, he hears the clicks of the firearms being raised to shoulders, and his first bite is as loud as a retort.

He vomits up the rest, making it to the loo barely in time.

Lisa is dead, and Ianto ought to be dead.

He takes the bag to the skip, and without anything better to do, he goes to work, where Owen gives him a full physical and asks him patently stupid questions off his clipboard about how depressed he is and if he has considered harming himself.

'Owen, why am I still alive?'

Owen's eyes drift down to the sheet. He's angry at Ianto, let the jab of the hypodermic speak for himself earlier, but there's another expression lurking under the contempt.

'Honestly, the only thing I can figure is that Suzie's still trying to get into Gwen's knickers, and she's impressing her with her kindness by not blowing your fucking head off.'

Both heads turn to glance at the window of Suzie's office, where their possibly-insane and certainly mysterious leader looks over reports. Gwen is in the room with her, wearing her favourite mien of righteousness and Suzie is smiling indulgently back.

That could be the explanation, Ianto reckons.

'Shame about your girl,' Owen says, in unexpected kindness, which he covers with a gruff clearing of his throat. 'You're healthy. If we had a mental health plan in place, I'd send your arse to therapy in a flat minute, but we don't.'

'So just get over it?' He wants to laugh, and can't.

Owen nods, head bobbing unusually. 'You'll figure it out. And if you don't, don't make a mess when you top yourself.'

Ianto considers telling Owen he has the worst bedside manner on the planet, but it's not worth the argument. Instead he goes about his day, cleaning, revising reports, keeping his head down, trying not to think.

Towards the end of the day, after Toshiko has been and gone with a kind cup of tea, he finds a folded note on his desk. In Owen's scrawl is a telephone number, and a curt, 'It might help.'

Suicide hotline? Sex chat? Owen's ugly cousin Lenore? He drops the note into his desk drawer and doesn't think about it for two days. He keeps to his routine. Unfortunately, his routine includes frequent trips to the basement to check on someone who is no longer there. In the afternoon while he is restocking the new shipment of medicines, he casually sets aside the extra doses of morphine that he always ordered, and it isn't until after he's put the rest away that he realises what he was doing.

Lisa is dead. Suzie won't make eye contact with Ianto. But her hands linger overlong on Gwen's arm as they speak.

Ianto dials the number Owen gave him. He's rehearsed what he'll say: fiancée killed in a crash, work impossible to deal with but covered by a contract he cannot break. Instead of a hotline, a woman's voice answers the phone, and tells him he's called a dating service. About three sentences into the conversation, Ianto understands 'dating' is a euphemism for 'escort.'

He stutters through an apology and hangs up and curses Owen.

The next day, Tosh calls in sick with a cold, Suzie is unbearably loud, and Owen is absolutely a bastard the entire day. Gwen would be the nice one if she weren't still watching Ianto with that open look of pity mixed with fear. Things come to a head when the generator in the basement turns temperamental again, and Owen flat out accuses him of hiding another Cyberman in an adjoining room.

Ianto calls the escort service that night, more than a little drunk, far more than a little angry. When he's sober, when he's not in so much pain, he feels a sharp pity of his own for the women driven into this profession, but tonight he doesn't want to care.

'You're set for tomorrow evening,' says the pleasant woman on the phone, and Ianto bursts out in a laugh.

'Tomorrow?'

'I've booked you from six PM until midnight.'

His eyebrows go up. 'I was looking for something more immediate.'

'Sir, we only provide the highest quality dates. Payment is on a sliding scale, so you needn't worry about the length of the date.' She sounds happy, almost therapeutic in her own fashion.

Angry and bewildered, Ianto rings off and staggers into his bedroom, where he indulges in an unhappy wank before falling asleep. The next day is slow and awful, and he keeps shooting looks at the clock. Tosh is back, and she manages to smile his way, but his thoughts are taken up with what's going to happen tonight.

Unable to keep the secret any longer, he tells Owen in the late afternoon, 'I called.'

Owen's face contorts into a number of interested expressions. 'Well, don't tell me about it. I never want to picture your naked arse.'

'I just. I don't know what to expect.'

Owen shrugs. 'You tell them why you're there. They figure out what you need. Like I said, don't tell me about it.' And he slumps off.

At half five Suzie lets them go. Ianto is out the door like he's on fire. He drives directly to the address he was given on the telephone, and arrives over fifteen minutes early. He's not sure what the protocol is, and decides to go inside. They can always tell him to go somewhere else. A bell jingles as he opens the windowless door, so incongruous to his expectations that he almost walks out again.

The room is darkly panelled in wood, with three good chairs for waiting, and a spread of current magazines. An old-fashioned desk sits at the far end of the room, and the woman behind it is middle-aged, blonde wash, gone to plump and friendly, like a Sunday school teacher. 'Help you, love?'

He clears his throat. 'I, ah, have an appointment. Six o'clock.'

Her friendly smile grows. 'All right. The base payment is one hundred pounds. You'll be working out the rest with your date.' House take. Of course. God, he's at a brothel, negotiating for a whore. When did this become his life?

His fingers are numb as he takes the notes from his wallet. She counts them efficiently and does not offer a receipt. 'Through that door, room two.'

'Thanks.' He's already half-hard, thinking about this. They haven't discussed his tastes, or his desires. He expected more, still expects someone to come along, concierge-like, and offer him a menu: blondes, gingers, Asian, Japanese. If there's a blue plate special, Ianto is going to walk out.

The second room is the size of a small hotel room, and barely more personal. There's a king-sized bed, a dresser with a sorted display of condoms and lubricants, and a bucket with fresh ice and a bottle chilling. He should refuse anything to drink, because he'll assuredly be drugged and possibly poisoned. On the other hand, does he really care?

He sits on the edge of the bed. His watch says he has five more minutes to wait when the door opens. A handsome man comes into the room, all muscle and swagger and devilish grin in his tight jeans and tank top. This will of course be the owner of the establishment, or the bouncer, here to threaten him and ask what kind of girl he wants.

'Hello there,' the man says, holding out a hand. Ianto shakes it automatically. 'And you are?'

'Ianto,' he says, and knows he should have brought a fake name with him.

'Ianto,' repeats the man. He's got an American accent, and flattens the sounds. 'Good Welsh name. What brings you here tonight?'

He tries not to tremble. 'My fiancée died. Um. A few months ago. I didn't really understand until earlier this week.' True. 'I just want to forget for a while. My co-worker gave me the number here.'

'Your co-worker? Sounds like an interesting office.'

Ianto considers today's tasks, the dead bodies he's had to carry, the complex lies he's created to cover even more complex truths. 'It can be.'

'We're pretty interesting here too,' says the man with a smile that suggests Ianto ought to grin with him at the joke. This one is an artist, Ianto thinks, fantastic at getting into someone's head. Owen is right: he'll be able to find someone Ianto can lose himself in.

Then the man steps closer and his hands come around Ianto's face and he presses his mouth against his. Ianto is shocked into the kiss, mouth adjusting naturally as the stranger's tongue dips inside to brush against his teeth. One hand stays at his chin, the other wraps around the back of his head, stroking warm fingers into Ianto's hair as he sighs.

It's been so long since the last time Ianto was snogged this way that his brain doesn't kick in for a long, wet moment. All he registers are the strong hands and the lean body pressed against him, and the teasing nips that taste very faintly of coffee. He pulls back. 'Wait.'

The man is out of breath, resting against Ianto's forehead. 'Okay. Waiting.'

'I didn't request a male escort.'

'I requested you. I saw your file. We provide the experience you need, and you, Mr Jones, require a lot of experience.' He bends in for another kiss, but Ianto pulls away sharply.

'How do you know my name?'

The man says, 'We research our clients thoroughly. It keeps us all safe.'

Research? Ianto has conducted hundreds of background checks, assisted by Torchwood technology. He pictures this brothel with not only his name, but his credit and medical history.

'Everything is kept strictly confidential,' says the man, and his hand is at Ianto's waist. 'You won't be compromised in any way, and neither will we.'

This is crazy, and he should leave. This is crazy, and he should know better. This is ... 'I'm not gay,' Ianto says. 'Sorry.'

'Neither am I. I consider myself a people person.' He bends closer. 'And I mean all people, including the ones from way out of town.' His voice sends shivers down Ianto's spine, and he wonders just how thorough the background check was. 'You need this. If you don't want it, the door's right there.'

He should walk away.

He should also be dead.

He grabs the man by the shoulders, and draws him in for another kiss. It's weird, a little, but kissing is kissing, and Lisa hasn't been able to kiss him like this in months, and Lisa is dead. 'What do I call you?'

'Pick a name,' the man says between kisses.

'I get to name you? Seems a big responsibility. How about Leroy?'

The man laughs into his mouth. 'Leroy?'

'Or Chester. It's got a ring to it.'

'Call me Jack.'

Their mouths tangle together again, and this time, it's right, it's just right. Jack's not gentle but he is pliant, letting Ianto push into his mouth, letting his hands grab for purchase on Jack's waist. A moment later, they've managed to sit down on the yielding bed, still kissing, and Jack's hands are on the buttons to Ianto's waistcoat. This isn't bad, this will be fine. A kiss is a kiss, and a mouth's a mouth. He's got six hours but he only wants about ten more minutes.

'How much for oral?'

Jack keeps kissing him. 'Depends. Am I sucking you off or are you sucking me?'

The image appears to him seared across his brain, his own mouth open and filled with a heavy, musky cock. Ianto shakes it away. 'You sucking me.' His cock twitches at the promise.

'Twenty. Thirty if you don't want to wear a condom.'

'I'm clean.'

'I didn't ask you if you weren't.' Then they are too busy kissing and petting to discuss. Ianto's clothes are rapidly hitting the floor, and he pulls Jack's t-shirt over his head to get at a hard expanse of chest. He smells of some fantastic aftershave and his neck tastes of cocoa butter and sweat. Jack's teeth rake across one earlobe, sending more shivers down Ianto's back.

They are shifting, bodies moving on the bed as Ianto's trousers and pants are discarded. Jack isn't wearing anything under his jeans. Up close now, Ianto feels his cock touch the other man's, smooth and sensitive. Jack wraps his hand around them both and it's fucking perfect.

'Oh, like that do you?'

'Still not gay.'

'That's your hang up? You people.' There's a fond sigh in the words, and the hand lets go, with a barely-caught mutter about 'labels.' Jack rolls off the bed and gets a condom. 'Any allergies I should know about?'

'Strawberries.'

'Banana-flavoured it is.' Jack rolls the condom neatly onto Ianto's dick, as if he does this all the time. A moment later, warmth envelops him, muffled only with the feel of the sheath covering his dick. Ianto moans.

Jack makes a happy sound and gets to work, relaxing his throat and taking Ianto in deep. It's good, it's so much better than his hand ever could be. He grabs Jack's hair with one hand, holds onto the rich burgundy duvet with the other.

He mutters, 'Fuck,' and 'Like that.' Last night, he'd pictured a dark-haired woman, pictured fucking her mouth. He could do that now, take hold and just go. A mouth is a mouth, but this is a gorgeous, hot mouth giving every impression of enjoying the blow job almost as much as Ianto is. It's a show, he chides himself, put on to make the client feel more important. Owen probably gets off on that part as much as the sex itself.

Mental images of Owen give him pause. The mouth stops. 'Something wrong?' Jack continues to work his hands.

'No.' Pushing away any possible thoughts of Owen's scrawny body, Ianto grabs Jack's head with both hands and guides him back where he wants him. Jack wraps a large hand around the base and begins sucking hard, Ianto comes with a groan, filling the condom with a sticky mess.

While he lays back, delirious and content, Jack pulls off the condom, knots it, and discards it in the bin. He's still hard. Ianto's not sure of the protocol. Putting the money on the nightstand seems cliché. Does he make an offer to help the man with his hard on? Probably not.

He's just had sex with a prostitute. He's just had sex with a male prostitute. Who is watching him with an amused smile. 'You're welcome.'

'Thanks.'

Jack gets up from the bed, pulls the bottle out of the ice bucket, and digs around until he comes up with two small bottles of water. 'Thirsty?'

Ianto nods, and Jack tosses him one, then cracks open the other, draining it in a few swallows. 'They call it banana, but it's always that fake banana taste.' He slides back into the bad, where Ianto plays with his bottled water instead of drinking it. 'You haven't had good bananas until you've had one from the grove on Villengard.' Jack glances at him. 'That's not drugged, by the way.'

'Right.' Ianto takes a drink. The water is cold and sweet, and does not taste at all like bananas. 'I should go. How do we do this, then?'

Jack looks around the room. 'We've got this place until midnight. You can leave if you want. I'll be here.' He flops his head down, looking as comfortable as if this is his own bedroom.

'Is this your room?' The walls are painted a similar burgundy to the sheets, with the same wood panelling as the waiting room, and small paintings with gaudy gold-flake frames dot around the room. A thick curtain covers the lone window, barring even a peep of light from outside. Lamps with Tiffany shades adorn the tables, casting their coloured glow on the white ceiling like a spell. Ianto cannot picture someone living here but he can picture this man selecting each item, turning them over in his hands to assess how well they coordinate with the rest.

'I like this one the best, but no. I don't live here. None of us do.'

'Are there a lot of workers here?'

'Are you a cop?'

'I was just curious.'

'People come and go. Two of the women have been here for about ten years. The rest are newer than that. We've had to fire guys in the past for theft or drugs. Can't do that kind of thing and stay a respectable business, so we're down on people right now.'

'Respectable?'

Jack fixes him with a flat stare. 'We exchange services for a fair price, like any other business. We pay taxes like everyone else.'

Ianto is the primary form-filler and tax-negotiator for Torchwood Cardiff. He tries picturing the Sunday school teacher in the outer office processing the forms for the government's share of his blow job. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to impugn your business.'

'Apology accepted.'

It dawns on Ianto that Jack is in fact taking it very personally. 'Is this some kind of cooperative arrangement? All the workers united, sort of thing?'

'No.' Jack's hand wanders, if such a term can be used on a motion that is clearly intentional, down to Ianto's groin, and with a practised hand, he begins to stroke. It's a distraction.

'We're done,' Ianto reminds him.

The hand stops. 'All right. I could give you a massage. I'm very good at them.'

It's been even longer since the last time he had a massage, and Ianto nods without thinking too hard. He lets Jack coax him onto his stomach, pillows propping him in the right places. He's completely naked in bed with a man who has just sucked him off. Part of him is suddenly shy about this.

'Relax.'

Ianto rests his face on his folded arms and waits. A minute later, warmth spills on his back, followed by two strong hands. The oil smells faintly of peppermint, and tingles as Jack's fingertips dig into stressed muscles. He doesn't comment on the scars.

Ianto has spent months in hiding and fear. His heart is a shattered mess. Lisa has been dead for less than a week, or she has been dead since they left London, and Ianto doesn't know which. He knows he has lost her, has lost himself and his own soul in his attempt to save her. His actions have cost one man's life and nearly got a girl killed whose only crime was being assigned the wrong pizza run. Owen treated her and gave her the amnesia pills, but he says she may never walk again. All that guilt coils inside Ianto's head, squeezes knots into his body. Jack slowly loosens each one. The guilt remains, but the pain lessens.

Never once do Jack's hands go below Ianto's waist. Ianto is aware of Jack's weight, carefully spread not to dig into Ianto's body. Comforted, Ianto starts drifting asleep to the peppermint smell and the calming movement of hands. He is aware of time passing, perhaps half an hour, under the gentle pressure. It's the longest time anyone has spent caring for him in longer than he can remember.

When Jack finally moves away, Ianto turns his head to watch him settle again beside him. 'Thank you.'

'If you're going to keep the stressful job, you ought to look into some kind of stress relief. Hypertension will kill you.'

'I don't think that will be an issue.'

'Not everyone at Torchwood dies young.'

Ianto tenses all over again and stares at him. 'Excuse me?'

'Background check. Told you. Anyway, don't flatter yourselves that it's a secret. Anyone who's been in Cardiff any length of time knows about Torchwood.'

Ianto takes in Jack's American accent. 'You've been in Cardiff long?'

'Long enough.' He rolls over. 'I've been waiting here to meet up with someone.' He looks at Ianto. 'I've run into Torchwood a few times.'

It occurs to Ianto this man may have just admitted he's an alien. Ianto decides he doesn't care much. 'I hate them, I think. I hate what they've turned me into.'

'So leave.'

'That's not an option.'

'It's always an option.'

He pictures leaving, starting over. He owes it to the people he's let down to keep going, but honestly, if he dies here tonight, there's not a soul he works with who will mourn him for more than a day or two. Perhaps that is the punishment, to go on even when no one else gives a damn if he goes on or not.

He bends into Jack for a demanding kiss. This is about putting his head back together. He'll never let go of this guilt but he can learned to live with it. Jack's mouth agrees with him, open and soft, letting Ianto guide the kiss. No more coffee taste, not more than the faintest taste of fake bananas, Jack is sweet, and his hands cradle Ianto's face tenderly. He's a sublime actor, and Ianto needs a lie tonight.

'How does this work?' Ianto asks seriously. His dick is hard against Jack's side. He wants more. And they have this room until midnight.

'That depends on you. What do you want?' His lips trace the curve of Ianto's neck. He's agreeable, not guiding but accepting.

'What's on offer?'

'You're not interested in the full list.'

'Try me.'

Jack's laugh is low, promising, and dirty. 'I could blow you. You could blow me. My tongue up your arse, teasing you until you scream. My fingers in there. My whole hand.' Seeing Ianto's face he says, 'You'd like it. It's off the list for you to fist me until I know you've got more experience under your belt. I have to work tomorrow night. You can fuck me. I can fuck you. You can fuck me with a dildo shoved in your arse. I can fuck you while you jerk off into a rubber pussy. We can jerk off into it together, our dicks lined up together like sardines. I can bind you so you can't come, and torment you for hours while you beg me to let you pop. You can strap me down and do the same to me, if you're into the power instead of the pleasure.' He punctuates the word with a sharp bite. 'I can pee on you, by request. I can humiliate you like a dog. You can treat me like an insect. Suck your toes. Let you watch me masturbate. I've got a swing, straps and ropes, sensation oils and blindfolds. There's an artificial sheep in the back room if you're interested. Animatronic,' he adds with a touch of pride. 'For an extra charge, I invite a friend to join us, and we have all that fun together.' He waves an arm vaguely towards the front. 'Elise up front is the best dominatrix in County Glamorgan.'

Ianto pictures the Sunday school teacher cum receptionist in black leather. He pictures her with a blindfold and a filthy smile, a fake sheep at her feet. 'That's quite a list.'

Jack rolls over on top of Ianto. His body is heavy and warm, and he's hard, flush against Ianto's dick. 'That's the short list. You don't strike me as someone who wants to be punched in the face or have your balls tortured. What do you want?'

'I want to forget.' He thinks of Annie's dull eyes. 'Just for tonight.'

'Pain or pleasure?'

He's had enough pain. 'Pleasure.'

'Top or bottom?'

Ianto's eyes widen. 'Top. Definitely top.'

'Your call. First time with a guy, right?' Ianto nods. 'Any toys?'

He has trouble making his mouth work, and stutters out. 'Ca-can I try the rubber pussy?'

Jack's grin broadens. 'It's a good start.' He gets off the bed and picks up a peach-coloured cylinder that wobbles in his hand. He turns it so Ianto can see that one end is shaped in latex like a woman's genitals. Jack's fingers spread the hole open as Ianto watches, and his mouth goes dry. Jack grins again.

He has a large pump bottle of lubricant, and he puts in four good squirts, sliding two thick fingers into the toy to spread around the lube. 'Here.' He helps Ianto spread it wider. Ianto pushes the sheath over his cock and it's not really like a woman, too cold, the slickness is all wrong, but the pressure is very nice as Jack squeezes and strokes.

'Does this, fuck, count as a hand job?'

'Just a toy. Toys are free.' He wraps Ianto's right hand around it. 'Go on.'

It's better than masturbating into a tube sock but not quite as good as when someone else was holding it. Jack moves down his body, and presses Ianto's legs apart. Hot breath hits his balls, and a wet tongue slides over them. Ianto's hand stutters its motion as Jack licks short stripes on the sensitive flesh beneath his balls, blowing cool air over the moist skin.

Jack's tongue whirls around Ianto's arse. 'Yeah,' Ianto chokes out, forgetting the toy in his hand entirely when Jack delves inside.

It's good, it's so good, as sensations frisson through him, pressing lips and deep, stroking tongue, followed by fingers. He can't sort out the sensations, not when his own hand gets back with the program and begins pumping again. Obscene, wet smacks and contented moans come from Jack. Ianto can't think.

With a long thrust of his tongue, Jack slithers out again and firmly removes the toy from Ianto's hand. He's hard, he's ready. He wants.

Jack leaves the bed again and pumps lube into his hand. As Ianto watches, he puts his hand behind himself and makes a soft, broken face as his elbow moves. His hand is out of sight and Ianto can only imagine the fingers sliding in, readying himself.

Jack picks up another condom from the dresser. The silver foil reflects the low light in the room as he opens the packet.

Ianto says, 'How much without it?'

There's a hesitation, a moment where Ianto feels himself being sized up. The sex face is replaced with the business face. 'It's fifty with, a hundred without. Don't you take enough risks in a day?'

'You're an alien, aren't you? Does it matter?'

He barely hears the sound of the condom touching the dresser top. Jack comes back to the bed. 'I'm human. According to the Brigiston Act, I qualify as an extraterrestrial. Does that bother you?'

Jack is better looking than a weevil. 'No.'

'I used to have friends in Torchwood. They tried to get me an exception. Didn't happen.'

The Brigiston Act was passed back in '74 or '75, under cover of secrecy. Torchwood had wanted to secure their rights to acquire the Doctor if the situation presented itself. Ianto hadn't wondered about other aliens caught up in the turmoil of 'if it's alien, it's ours.'

Jack kneels at the end of the bed and crawls up. 'This will be easier if you get up.' He goes to his hands and knees, spreading himself invitingly. Ianto's cock is slick with lube from the abandoned rubber toy. He's having sex with a man, an alien, a whore for rent in a forgotten room. He guides his cock against the warmth flesh, rubbing between Jack's cheeks. He pushes inside.

Lisa had agreed to try anal sex once but they'd done it wrong because he'd hurt her going in and she'd cried, told him to stop and they hadn't continued. Jack doesn't tell him to stop. He adjusts the spread of his knees as Ianto grabs onto his hips. Everything is hot and tight, nothing at all like the rubber toy. He can feel each sensation as he thrusts in. Jack grunts as Ianto bottoms out.

'Good,' says Jack, praising him like a schoolboy. 'Just like that.'

Ianto closes his eyes. A mouth is a mouth and a body is a body. This body is willing, whatever his real name is. This body feels good, however human he is. This body is warm and alive, no matter how dead inside Ianto is. They set up a rhythm together. If Jack is pretending his pleasure, Ianto can't tell, can only lose himself in the give of flesh under each finger and the squeeze on his dick. He'll leave his fingerprints bruised on Jack's thighs. Jack will leave his own impression bruised all over Ianto.

To hold on a bit longer, he stares away from Jack, stares at a point on the wall. There's a painting, a watercolour, a sailboat headed out to sea on a stormy day, all blues and severe greys. Someone chose that painting for this room, chose to have a focal point, someone who expected to be fucked and used and bored, someone waiting to look at something, anything, to escape inside their own head.

'You own this place.'

Jack's reply is a whine in his throat.

He's going to come. The feeling coils inside him, burning in his knees and toes, driving him deeper as Jack gasps. 'Beautiful.' Suddenly Jack falls to one elbow, the other going to work on his own dick.

The change in position and the feeling of Jack wanking himself is the last piece Ianto needs to fall over the edge. His head burns, his balls ache, and he pulls out. 'Roll over.'

Jack rolls, still jerking himself. Ianto tugs him upright in time to shoot his come on Jack's handsome face, which twitches in surprise as each sticky shot strikes him. Moments later, he lets out a groan, spurting over his hand and onto his flat, hairless stomach. He looks good covered in spunk. Ianto rolls off him and flops beside him on the bed.

'About the power after all, huh?' Jack asks quietly. He needs a towel or a flannel, something to clean him properly, but that's not Ianto's job.

He leaves the money on the nightstand. Clichés exist for a reason.

He doesn't thank Owen when he gets into work the next morning. There's an understanding between them afterward, still the arguments but without the teeth. They watch together, unsurprised, the night Gwen goes home with Suzie instead of to her Rhys.

'We deal with it the best we can,' Owen says.

Ianto makes another appointment. His second date is a blonde girl, barely twenty. Her face reminds him of that girl Carys. After they fuck, he asks her where Jack is. She says she doesn't know anyone by that name. For forty pounds, he watches her go down on another woman. For thirty more, she swallows his come when he's ready.

He doesn't go back.

Tosh retreats into herself and when she comes back out, she's sleeping with an alien who nearly kills them all. After they're forced to shoot Mary, Suzie makes Ianto process Tosh's statements. He offers her tea, and he fills out her paperwork. 'This is not the end,' he tells her from experience. 'You'll find a way to go on.'

He leaves the telephone number in a folded note on her desk.

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><p>The End<p> 


End file.
